


Don't Speak

by xX_Rabble_Rouser_Xx



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Not Beta Read, Pre-Canon, Shadam, adashi, not tagging as major character death because we know what really happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-21 23:56:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15569178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xX_Rabble_Rouser_Xx/pseuds/xX_Rabble_Rouser_Xx
Summary: Shiro has always been career-driven, and Adam is concerned about how far he may push himself. After Shiro leaves for Kerberos, Adam reconsiders his hasty words.





	Don't Speak

**Author's Note:**

> I watched that one clip of Shiro and Adam and instantly hated Adam. I stewed in my dislike until my brain spontaneously challenged me to get into his head and make him sympathetic instead. This is the result. I'm still waiting to see s7 to see how I feel for sure, but I think I've gotten a different perspective on him now.

They say the reasons you fall in love with someone will be the reasons you split up, but that could never happen to us.

I believed that, I truly did.  When I finally realized it was happening, I was powerless to stop it.

No, that’s a lie.  I was too stubborn to admit I was wrong.

_If you decide to go, don’t expect me to be here when you get back._

It was a bluff.

 _It was a bluff,_ I whisper to myself.  _Rude of you to call me on it.  As always._

I imagine his chuckle in my ear.  I wrap my arms around myself and pretend I can feel him pressed against my back, strong arms around me, driving me crazy before whispering in my ear to be quiet and go to sleep.  It never worked.  He never meant it to.

It feels like he’s been gone forever.  I’ve hated every second of it.

After sleeping next to him for so long, I can’t sleep alone.

It’s nice sleeping in the bed again though.  That last month before he left, I slept out on the couch out of spite.  I had plenty of sleepless hours to realize that this fight was different, because he wasn’t laughing and calling me petty for sleeping on the couch.  No, he had barely spoken to me at all.

But I’m right.  I’m right to be worried, to voice my concerns, even if he wants to ignore reality.

Ever since his diagnosis, he has had to accept that he’s not unstoppable.  He’s had to slow down, learn to listen to his body, and actually obey doctors’ orders.

 _You don’t need to protect me,_ he told me said so many times.

Well, maybe I do!

In the time I’ve known him, I’ve had to watch him go from a cadet, full of vitality, pushing every limit because he wanted to, to a man struggling to push limits just to prove to himself that he isn’t dead yet.  He used to coax me out of functions early because of the desire I saw in his eyes.  Lately, I’ve been dragging him home because of the fatigue I now saw instead.

And now he’s flying out to the farthest reaches of the solar system, against my strongest recommendations.  What if something goes wrong?  What if his health takes a turn for the worst?

I’m not the only one to be concerned.  Iverson agrees with me, as does Admiral Sanda.

_This is something I need to do for myself._

That told me everything I needed to know.  I don’t matter.  My fears don’t matter.

When we met as cadets, I admired his talent and drive.  He’s always been so determined to do his best, to be the best at everything he set out to do.  He’s always so clear-headed, putting emotions aside for the safety of his crew and the success of the mission.

I saw it firsthand the day our squadron of cadets was out flying over the desert.  Something went wrong with my fighter.  I didn’t know what it was, and I still don’t — I’m no engineer.  The calm, cool voice of my wingman talked me through troubleshooting until I started to nosedive.

_I’m gonna die._

I hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

_No, you won’t.  I’ve got you.  Just hold on._

Thanks to a safety measure implemented after a fatal crash years before, he was able to remotely activate my ejection seat.  A few minutes later, he found me on the ground with a concussion and a broken leg, but alive, a quarter-mile from the shattered remains of my fighter.

He later told me that he had been scared to death but he knew what had to be done.  We put our rudimentary medical training together to splint my leg.  Then I insisted on hobbling back towards the base, against his recommendations, with the emergency beacon from his cockpit, to meet the rescue crew on the way faster.  We had been assigned as wingmates at random, but he said he appreciated my ability to think on the fly — no pun intended, he said.

It took time to figure out, but that was the day we fell in love.

And now his ambition is taking its toll on our relationship.  He’s shutting out not only his own emotions but mine.  Not satisfied with breaking every record in regards to both flying and survival with his condition, he keeps pushing.  Too far.  It’s not necessary.  I’m falling back on my old stubbornness, and unfortunately my ability to think fast has just led to me blurting out things I regret now.

Not to say I don’t mean what I say.

I’ve been there with him every step of the way, ever since we were assigned together.  Endless simulations.  Daily drills.  Hours in the infirmary.  Countless tests and medications.  So many times I’ve stepped back my own career to help him achieve his goals before…

We value what little personal time we have, don’t we?  Then why is he deliberately choosing to go on this mission that will take the better part of a year?  We don’t have that much time to begin with.

It doesn’t matter, I guess.  The time we’ve spent together.  The laughs.  The tears.  The meaningful glances across the room.  Devotion spoken in cups of tea every morning.  Adoration in subtle touches when no one is looking.  Passion in sweat and gasps.  Murmurs of love as we finally fall asleep.

If it had meant anything to him, he wouldn’t have left.  He would have stayed, retired like we had talked about, and given me the time he has left.

I’ve given him everything I could, more than I ever thought I was capable of, and yet far less than he deserves.

Yes, I’m furious, but my love far outweighs any anger.  Yes, we broke up, but that doesn’t mean we stop caring.

We proved that the night before he left.

He had been spending so much time preparing for the mission, I hadn’t expected him back in our shared quarters.  But there he was, standing just inside the doorway like he wasn’t sure he belonged there, with this look of hope without wanting to hope too much.

He opened his mouth, but I cut him off.

_Don’t speak.  I know.  You’ve already explained it.  I know your reasons for going.  I can’t listen to it anymore.  Just don’t speak._

Instead, he scooped me up in his muscular arms that I loved so much and carried me to the bed.  Without a word, we gave each other everything we had, trying so hard to memorize each other’s bodies in the brief time we had left.

I thought I had cherished him before, but now I know it’s not just desire, it’s need.  I need him to breathe.  I don’t know how to live without him now.  I realize it’s like we are still struggling through the desert, his strength and my stubbornness being the only things that get us through.  Without his strength, I can’t go on.

The next morning, he left me with a gentle goodbye kiss.

_Don’t speak._

I didn’t.  No words could adequately describe how I was feeling.  A cold feeling in the pit of my stomach told me that was the last time I’d see him.  After one last cup of tea, he left for the launch, and I spent a good two hours crying.

I’ve had time to think over our numerous arguments about this mission.  Some days I’m angrier with him for going.  Other days I’m angrier with myself for, alternately, trying to stop him or not trying harder.  We never really talked about it like rational adults.  He stuck to his ambition, and I stuck to my selfish fears.

We can fix this, I know it.

If he comes back…

 _When_ he comes back, we’ll fix this.  We’ve fought plenty of times, gone days without speaking before.  And we’ve always worked it out.  We will again.  I mean, it’s a hell of a cool-off period, but there’s no way around it now.

I finally give up on sleep when the room begins to lighten, baring the painful truth that there is no longer any warm, muscled body breathing evenly beside me.  I’d give anything to have him back.  I will someday.

In the atrium of the Academy, I pass the screen that has been running general updates of the mission.  According to the screen yesterday, they were scheduled to land on Kerberos within the day.

_Hurry up and come home to me._

Today though, the screen shows the Galaxy Garrison screensaver and no updates.

Odd but not surprising, but considering delay in communications over such a long distance.  I’m sure they’ll have the mission updates back up by the end of the day.

But they don’t, and the next morning is the same.

That feeling of dread is growing, and I find myself jogging down to Communications myself to get to the bottom of it.  Ironically, Communications gives noncommittal answers until I track Iverson down and ask him directly.

_We’ve lost contact with the Kerberos mission._

I’m never going to see him again.

In a show of strength he would be proud of, I manage to walk back to our quarters.  I can’t bring myself to teach my usual classes today.  I desperately try not to cry, to tell myself that there’s hope, there’s a possibility that there was just a communications malfunction and he’ll be back on in no time, jokingly apologizing for giving the Galaxy Garrison the silent treatment.

The day is a blur of tears, attempts to distract myself, and the resulting half-finished projects lying about.

I go straight to Iverson the next morning.  I can barely stand, and I clasp my hands behind my back and hope he can’t see how I’m shaking.

_They’ve crashed._

God, I was right.  I knew it could all go wrong so easily.

I’d give anything to be wrong.

_Pilot error._

I told him.  I TOLD him.  Not just me, either.  The doctors warned him of what could happen if his condition worsened up in space.  But he just HAD to go.

In trying to prove everyone wrong, he has proven me right in the worst way possible.

In a daze, I somehow find my way back to our quarters.  My quarters now.

God, no, don’t think that.  It’s too soon.

Everything after is a blur.

I can’t eat.  I cry until I’m exhausted.  I just feel cold all the time, like the sun has blinked out.  It has, for me.  He was the sun in my life, so bright, so warm, so influential that I couldn’t help but build my world to revolve around him.

Hadn’t I?

Lying in our bed alone, soaking our pillows with my solitary tears, I think back.

I want to remember everything.  Every second with him.  With every hour that passes, those brief moments become more precious.  I don’t ever want to forget anything.

With the good memories come the bad.  The fights.  The wasted time.  The missed opportunities.  The regrets.

I could have done more.

I could have been more.

I could have loved him more.

I stifle my screams in the pillows.

I can’t fix this.  I can’t get him back.  He’s dead and he’s not coming home.

I shouldn’t have told him I wouldn’t be here.

Did he believe me?

Did he die believing I didn’t love him?

How could I have said something so cold?

Somehow, I find myself at the memorial service for the members of the Kerberos mission.  The line snakes back and forth through the entire Academy Auditorium.  I know he was popular, that the other members of the mission had family, but this is unexpected.  Normally I might take heart in knowing he was supported, but I just want to scream at them all that none of them loved him the way I loved him.

_Love._

I can’t put it into past tense yet.  I never will.

I numbly file past the photos of the members of the mission.  Scrapbooks from family members.  I barely skim over them and I touch nothing.  I’m barely holding back tears as it is.  I can’t look at him right now.  No photo could match the face I want to remember, smiling up at me through the dark.

Oh, God.

His parents.

How can I face them?

Do they know how I sent him to his death with a broken heart?

With a tearful smile, his mother grasps my hand in both of hers.

_He loved you._

I can’t.  I’ve kept it together in public so far but I can’t now.

_I’m so sorry._

I quickly shake his father’s hand before rushing from the auditorium in tears.  Everyone is gawking now.  I must look like a mess.  I didn’t mind people staring when we started walking around holding hands, or when he got another medal with me by his side.  But I can’t stand it now that I’m alone.  I can’t do this without him.

It feels like a slap in the face that the world continues to turn without him.

I don’t qualify for bereavement leave for an exboyfriend.

I’m away, my first day back teaching after burning through all of my sick days, when his parents come get his things from my quarters.

Our quarters.

No one even notified me.

It’s another blow to come home and find the place stripped.  Half the closet bare.  Half the photos off the walls.  His favorite tea mug.  Everything of his, down to his toothbrush.

Like he was never there.

Like he was never mine.

I fall to my knees and scream silently, unconsciously pulling at my hair until I can feel it start to break.

He wouldn’t want this.

It doesn’t matter what they take.  He’s in my memories, in my heart, and no one can take that from me.

I choke back sobs and crawl shakily to the bedside table.  There’s one thing they haven’t taken.

I’ve kept journals for years, since long before I met him.  I’ve never kept them secret, and I didn’t even mind when he started reading them and leaving snarky comments in the margins.

_Sometimes it’s the only way I can figure out what goes on in that hard head of yours._

I flip through the pages, his black ink contrasting with my preferred blue.

I haven’t written since before he left, but there’s a short note in black beneath my last entry.

_Home soon.  Love you._

I’m spent.  I have no more tears to cry.  I’m too exhausted.

With weak hands I take up a blue pen and write one line.

A simple date.

The day he died on Kerberos.

The day I died with him.


End file.
